Prescription for the (my) crazies: Get outside more. Exercise more.

Here's what you do. Walk down the middle of your street after a run. Pause next to the neighbor's magnolia tree and take a deep breath. Lift your face to the gray-blue sky and let the wind cool your sweaty skin. Remember: this is why you're here. Head home.

She's a good kid.

We had a great morning at the park until something changed, I don't know what, but I was faced with Madeleine running in one direction and Violet running in the other. Violet was okay -- she was headed toward the enclosure of the playground, which was near our car -- but Madeleine was bolting toward a vast open field and a parking lot.

"Madeleine," I yelled. "Come back! We're going back to the playground."
"NO," she shouted without looking back. She marched on.

I bolted after her, and as soon as I could, grabbed her arm. She immediately dissolved into hysterical tears. "NO," she cried. "NO! I WANT TO GO THIS WAY RIGHT NOW!"

"Madeleine," I said, my voice as even as I could make it. "We are going back to the playground. You can either come with me, calmly, or we can go home. Which one?"

"Go this way," she said petulantly, pointing to the parking lot.

I reiterated her choices and she followed me reluctantly, a few paces behind. Suddenly she stopped. "Madeleine," I said, turning back to her. "Come on."

And a look flashed in her eyes. Stubbornly resistant, yes, but mostly afraid. She stared up at me with big, serious eyes, and honestly, I felt so bad for her just then. You could see she knew how she was supposed to behave and just wasn't behaving that way, and she didn't like where it was leading. Like a little girl who really, just then, had no control over her actions. So vulnerable.

I scooped her up and carried her back to the playground and she cried and cried, alternating between pleas for apple juice and to wear her footie pajamas.

"Are we having a tough day?" I asked her gently, and she nodded, face contorted, tears pouring down her face.

Later, after we were home and she had on her footies and had just finished a big lunch, the park (at least in my mind) mostly forgotten, Mad curled up in my lap. "Sorry," she said.

"Sorry for what?" I asked her, surprised.
"Sorry for not listening at the park," she said.

"It's okay," I told her. "Sometimes when I'm hungry and tired, I don't want to listen either. And sometimes I just want to cry, too."

She stared at me for a second; I could see her calculating the weight of my words. Then she smiled and made kissy noises at my face.

hitting bottom sounds like
a sharp crack and a dull thud,
shattered bones, so many
cells split, sluicing from skin

it looks like
a wide blue sky, arching
branches above me

we pick up,
we go,
of course.

this is what we do.

the going
smells like wild honeysuckle,
feels like the wind in your face

everyone moving forward,
everyone moving

we are